


Pet Play

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 14:45:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5209835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most people play with their pets. Bombshell uses his to play powergames against other Decepticons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pet Play

_Most people play with their pets. Bombshell uses his to play powergames against other Decepticons._

**Title:** Pet Play  
 **Warning:** Manipulation, mindfrag, coercion. References to physical violence and bad touches. Decepticon internal politics.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Stunticons, Insecticons - Breakdown, Bombshell, Shrapnel, Motormaster  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** _Insecticons - "Forcefeeding + Decepticons + manipulation/coercion as courting”_

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

Nobody thought to warn the newbie Decepticons of the hazards of Earth. Maybe they didn’t care. Possibly it didn’t occur to them a warning was necessary. Earth was dangerous. It seemed fairly obvious that Autobots weren’t the only things to be wary of outside the base.

Breakdown hadn’t known about Bombshell until a cerebro-shell enslaved him. He stood in wooden obedience under the Insecticon’s scrutiny, mind screaming helpless fear. He’d known about the Insecticons’ general existence but not about the mind-control part. That would have been important information to know any time before a giant mechanical beetle divebombed out of the sky to shell him. It was too late to escape by then, of course. He couldn’t even call for help from his team. The sudden loss of motor control shut him into a corner inside his own mind, and Breakdown rode along as a passenger in his own body.

Bombshell’s optics crawled across his finish. Breakdown could feel them. They trailed over him. The short little mech walked a slow circuit around him, optics sweeping him from helm to tires, and Breakdown shivered in the depths of his thoughts. Watching optics, watching watching. He knew the feel of hidden cameras and stealthy spies keeping him under surveillance, but seeing Bombshell _study_ him this way crept horror under his armor on many prickly legs. He couldn’t stop him. All he could do was feel how powerless he was. The cold slug bored into his forehelm forced him to endure it. 

He didn’t know if it was better or worse when Bombshell reached out to actually touch him, hands smoothing over plating already violated by his optics.

“Shiny,” the Insecticon approved in a low voice. Fingertips wisped along the edges of Breakdown’s hood. “Well maintained. We don’t see anything this shiny in the swamps.” His optics gleamed shrewdly as his stroking turned more possessive. Acquisitive, even. “You’d make a fine trophy, you would.”

“He would what, what?” Another giant beetle crawled out of the weeds overgrowing the sides of the old road. It transformed into a second short mech. 

This was what came of escaping the other Stunticons’ company to find a place to drive on his own, apparently: capture, mind-control, and probably eventual death by big metal bugs. Breakdown despaired as the other Insecticon walked over to join in the staring. His preprogrammed information files told him this was Shrapnel. It didn’t tell him what kind of nightmare he could expect from this one. More mind-control? Disassembly? Bombshell seemed to like his polish, spreading hands over his armor as if taking ownership. They were probably going to tear him apart and sell him to Swindle!

Bombshell turned toward his partner to share his plan. “Megatron,” how he sneered the Decepticon leader’s name gave his opinion on him, “decided to create a new combiner team. I’ve been considering where they could be useful, but I didn’t think to add this into their potential value to us.” His palm stroked up the inside of Breakdown’s thigh. “This tidbit’s dropped into my lap. I think I might keep him.”

Shrapnel squinted. “Why, why? He doesn’t look important, important.”

“I’m sure his team is individually a bunch of nobodies,” Bombshell said carelessly, “but as a group, they’re highly placed in the Decepticon ranks. Taking one of them as my own won’t bring us extra energon, but keeping a pet always has its perks.” Claws scraped lightly over a sensitive seam. Breakdown railed uselessly on the inside, fear and rage mingling into panic that went nowhere. “Status, Shrapnel. Status. Decepticons are infighters. Collecting a tender morsel like this will bring us political power. They consider holding someone else in thrall an accomplishment. Why do you think they fear me so much?”

Breakdown cowered inside his mind as the other Insecticon harrumphed and walked around him. Intense scrutiny studied him from every angle.

“Make a better snack than a status symbol, symbol,” Shrapnel grumbled. He seemed unconvinced of their prize’s value, and it suddenly occurred to the helpless Stunticon that he really, really didn’t want to discover what happened to worthless mechs out here in the swamps. The way the two Insecticons talked about him painted a horrifying picture of how he might disappear down their gullets. His gestalt wouldn’t know to search for him until he failed to check in tomorrow night. That was a long time. It could be made very short. 

He didn’t want to be a snack!

Bombshell stretched to poke at his shoulder tires. The tickle of fingers playing over the rubber fed the uncontrollable panic bubbling up in Breakdown’s head. The further it grew without any outlet, the more it blotted out everything else. It crushed his anger from being manipulated. Terror overwhelmed the rage. Breakdown trembled into his own mind.

Bombshell spun his tires, enjoying the power to toy with the Stunticon, and Shrapnel gave him an exasperated look. “You and your pets, pets.”

“This one’s shiny.”

“He is, is,” Shrapnel allowed. The tall electric conduction rods on his back twitched eagerly, mouthparts of his altmode grasping at food within his reach, and Breakdown’s tanks turned to liquid ice. “I want to play with him, him.”

“Mmm, yes, but don’t break him. Nibble around the edges, but leave our precious crumb intact.” Bombshell pinched Breakdown’s chin, giving him a mocking shake as his voice dipped to saccharine tone. “Just a precious, delicious energon goodie, yes you are. I could just eat you right up.” The sugar-sweet tone dropped, and he shot a sharp look at Shrapnel. “But I won’t, and neither will you. Remember, he can’t be a marker on the board if he’s scrap.”

Breakdown didn’t want to be scrap. Being stared at, fine; molested, whatever; dead, no. He had endured beatings and humiliations enough to know that the sick chill in his gut could be endured, but he knew now as he knew every time Motormaster lashed out that the ultimate fear, bigger than itching paranoia every moment of his life, was death. Survival was everything. Please, please, he didn’t want to die.

Shrapnel seemed to know what he was thinking. He stood back from the Stunticon, hands on his hips and smirk on his face. “Won’t have to munch him if he plays nice, nice. Is he going to play nice, nice?”

Bombshell shrugged, unconcerned, but his optics gleamed wicked amusement at their toy’s terror-bright optics. “We can always make sure he can’t run until he learns his place. He doesn’t need his axles. Or his tires, for that matter.”

“Chewy, chewy.”

“One for each of us, if we leave him one to keep.”

It took Breakdown a second to connect that ominous statement to the third Insecticon file in his archives. Oh dear holy highways, there was a third one somewhere! Watching! Waiting, more than likely. Ready to eat him if he ran. These two would chase him, but the third one was already lying in ambush, and -- and if Bombshell decided he didn’t have value, Breakdown would probably be cannibalized down to the struts in minutes! 

Forget dignity. He didn’t have control of his ventilation system, or panic would have him panting quick, terrified breaths by now. He was cornered and knew it. They’d made certain of that. His sole savior was the one petting him, hands spreading condescending, gloating triumph in long strokes over his plating, and he couldn’t do anything about it. He didn’t _dare_ do anything that might cause Bombshell to change his mind.

So Breakdown stood in knock-kneed terror when the cerebro-shell released him, afraid to move. Shrapnel waited, watching and licking his lips, but the Stunticon didn’t fling himself through transformation to flee in a squeal of tires off down the road. He wouldn’t get far if he tried, and these monsters would share him amongst each other a mouthful at a time for attempting to escape. Maybe a bite would go through a vital conduit, turning the ‘lesson’ fatal, or Bombshell might get a taste for Stunticon and just keep on eating him until there was nothing left. 

He didn’t want to stay here, but the risk was too great. Breakdown clenched his hands into shaking fists, locked his knees, and stayed where he’d been put. He didn’t need to be taught a lesson, please, no. He trembled under Shrapnel’s lascivious stare and swallowed the panic gurgling up his throat. Bombshell didn’t stop fondling him for a second.

He never did. Breakdown never really grew used to the intimate touches, but he stopped cringing from his master’s hands. The handling…it wasn’t so bad. Bombshell didn’t need to use a cerebro-shell to make him submit. If he did as he was told, the shells were simply a threat the Insecticon relished hanging over his head. 

It was an effective threat. Breakdown learned to accept Bombshell’s habit of touching him anyhow and anywhere, in front of anyone. It was humiliating, but at least it didn’t hurt most of the time. _Motormaster_ hurt him, hurt his whole team, and the Stunticons still followed their leader. Breakdown was used to taking a lot of abuse before rebelling. Compared to what Motormaster did to him, the humiliation and powerlessness of being Bombshell’s pet didn’t seem so bad. Odd as it seemed, Bombshell treated him kinder than Breakdown’s own team leader. He rewarded his pet for obedience, even though Breakdown wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the rewards he was given. Breakdown didn’t like the reminder that he’d been a good pet. Sometimes he didn’t like the rewards, either, but he accepted them from his master’s hand anyway because rewards were always better than punishment. 

Motormaster’s punishments tended to center around physical pain, throwing his team around as if he could beat the failure and disobedience out of them. Breakdown could endure that pain. He couldn’t endure Bombshell’s punishments. They made him wish for pain. 

Bombshell turned him over to the other Insecticons. 

A few punishments were all it took. Breakdown much preferred Bombshell’s petting to Shrapnel’s version of play. The other Insecticons turned out to be more sadistic than his new master, and Breakdown learned quickly to lean into Bombshell’s hands to encourage a possessive sort of protection from his master, even if they were in public. He could hide his face against Bombshell’s side whenever the other Decepticons stared, unless his master decided otherwise.

Fortunately for his tattered pride, the Insecticons didn’t typically spend time in the underwater base. Bombshell liked to summon him out to the relative privacy of the swamps, bringing him to heel. The summons were no secret, made to emphasize exactly who owned him to the rest of the Decepticons, and Breakdown hated the moment everyone turned to look at him. He didn’t like that any more than he liked the unwanted attentions lavished on him once he obeyed Bombshell’s summons like a reluctant but well-trained pet should. 

He didn’t like it, but he knew better than to disobey. He had good reason to hurry to kneel at his master’s feet. Disobedience wasn’t an option, not when it left him creeping through the halls of the Decepticon base knowing Shrapnel or Kickback were somewhere waiting for him. The sadistic Insecticons always stalked him for days before disciplining him. He could feel the pressure build the longer they lurked, watching him. Waiting was almost the worst part, but then they punished him, and nothing could be worse than being at their mercy. They loved punishing him. They delighted in torturing Bombshell’s bad pet. They made him _feel_ his master’s disappointment, grinding it into his writhing, squealing _spark_ while Breakdown regretted everything too late, always too late. 

Sometimes his punishment was a powerplay. Bombshell used his toy Stunticon’s anxieties to further the Insecticons’ political agenda. He turned Breakdown’s need to please into a demonstration for the Decepticons.

Breakdown knew he shouldn’t be a political piece. He knew he should resist, stand up for himself or fight for his dignity as more than a marker on a board, but when Bombshell appeared at the end of a particularly nerve-wracking week waiting for the axe to fall, Breakdown’s knee joints turned to water. And when the expected punishment didn’t come, when Bombshell asked instead if Breakdown was sorry he misbehaved…what was Breakdown supposed to do? Choose pain?

No. He grabbed for the mercy dangled in front of him.

“Yes-I’m-sorry-please-forgive-me,” Breakdown apologized in a rush. “I shouldn’t’ve disobeyed. It won’t happen again!”

Satisfaction narrowed his master’s optics, and Bombshell pointed to the floor. 

Breakdown knew his place. He scurried down the hall to kneel where he belonged: at his master’s feet. Relief shivered through his internal system as a hand squeezed his shoulder-tire. He leaned into the familiar violation, grateful for the petting. It meant he was forgiven. He knew it wasn’t that simple, but the optics in the shadows melted away when he knelt under Bombshell’s hand. The shaking tension in his brakelines eased. He felt better than he had all week. 

“You were a very bad pet, you know. Shrapnel told me I should eat the disobedience out of you, starting with your upholstery,” his master said, cruelly casual, and Breakdown flinched down toward the floor in scared submission. No, please, he was valuable! He was worth something to Bombshell, he knew he was, he just needed a chance to prove it! 

Bombshell gave dread time to break the Stunticon. He waited until Breakdown’s engine whined, the uniquely destructive vibration rattling the bolts from the walls and floor, and only then did he relent. “You’re going to show me how sorry you are,” he said, and at that point it was as much an offer of grace as a command.

Breakdown buried his face against the Insecticon’s knee. “Okay,” he whispered there.

“Where’d you get that?” Motormaster demanded ten minutes later as Breakdown inched through the door to the team’s quarters. The cube Bombshell had given him glittered large and full of more energon than the entire Stunticon team’s ration. They’d been on bare minimum since Megatron cut their portion after Menasor failed to secure the mission objective. Wildrider and Drag Strip looked one step from drooling. Even Dead End stared at the cube in blatant hunger.

Breakdown gulped and raised his chin in paper-thin defiance. “Bombsh-shell.”

Harsh suspicion blew straight through surprise and into resentment. Motormaster had tried beating Bombshell’s ownership out of Breakdown before. So far, it hadn’t worked. “The bug. The bug gave it to you. The bugs don’t give away energon. They’re gluttons with no self-control.” Yet the way he said it didn’t sound as though he was accusing Breakdown of lying. It sounded more like disbelief.

“Bet I know what you did to get it!” Drag Strip crowed, laughing, but his optics lingered on the cube. Hunger and incredulity fought on his face. Breakdown could almost see him think it: why did the loser get the energon? What did Bombshell see in Breakdown and not Drag Strip?

Breakdown straightened unconsciously, a twisted, dull glow of pride blooming in his spark. Yeah, that’s right. He got the energon and Drag Strip didn’t, so nyah. Who was the loser now, huh?

Drag Strip’s confused envy wasn’t alone. Wildrider frankly stared. Dead End showed the most revulsion for the speculated method of ‘earning’ Bombshell’s favor, but he kept glancing at the full cube. There was a weird thoughtfulness in how he looked at it. 

Breakdown didn’t have time to wonder about it. Motormaster took a swipe at him, grabbing for the cube, and he had to skitter out of reach of his commander. “Give it here,” Motormaster said gruffly.

“N-no.” He had to stop and reset his vocalizer. It took all his courage to keep his chin up and back straight. Bombshell had told him to do this. He couldn’t disobey his master again, not even if Motormaster ordered him to. That was probably the point. 

“No,” he said again, louder. He flinched at the ugly noise Motormaster’s engine made but stood his ground. “Bombshell didn’t g-give it to me! It’s -- it’s not mine to give away. I’m supposed to dr-drink it. Me.” His voice sank to a small, scared thing as Motormaster loomed over him. This was going to end in another beating, and he’d be in trouble with Bombshell on top of in pain. Bombshell typically comforted him after a beating from Motormaster. Nothing as nice as repairs, but enough sympathy that Breakdown automatically sought his master’s side when hurt. A sinkhole opened in his chest at the thought of the Insecticon turning him away tonight.

“It’s his energon,” he whimpered in helpless defense. “He’s just letting me have some. If -- if you take it from me, he’ll get mad at you.” Mad at him, too, but only because he disobeyed and didn’t drink it in front of Motormaster like he was supposed to.

Motormaster’s fist stopped against a wall of absolutely nothing. Breakdown jittered nervously, optics locked on the massive fist. He must have said the right thing, whatever he’d said. Breakdown honestly didn’t know what had stopped Motormaster, but his commander was staring down at him through optics flaming in rage. He’d never seen Motormaster give him that look without eating a knuckle sandwich soon after.

“I’d share it if I could,” he offered meekly, and the rage burnt incandescent. 

Optic frames twitching, Motormaster slowly lowered his fist. “You’d share energon with your team if the slagging bug’d let you,” he grated out. “If. He’d. **Let** you. And taking it from you would **offend** ,” the word came out sounding as if it tasted awful, “him. I’m supposed to care if I offend a bug, Breakdown?”

Breakdown cared a great deal if the bug in question was offended, but he wasn’t Motormaster. Motormaster didn’t care if he offended anyone. Unless that anyone was Megatron, who’d been seriously miffed at the Stunticons lately, and Motormaster had been caring a lot about that. Megatron wasn’t an Insecticon, however. “No?” he mumbled.

Motormaster stayed silent too long. Breakdown looked into the cube of energon and tried not to shake apart.

The Stunticon leader sounded strange when he broke the silence. “Where did Bombshell get the energon?”

“Um.” Breakdown wouldn’t have thought to ask that of his master, but oddly enough, Bombshell had actually told him. “Megatron gave it to him. F-for getting that part we didn’t.”

Dead End sucked in a sharp vent against his fans. Startled, Breakdown looked at him, but his teammate stared at Motormaster. He looked up at his commander.

Motormaster looked like someone had dumped sugar into his gas tank. Optics bleached near-white in fury, he glared down at Breakdown as puffs of black exhaust billowed from his exhaust stacks. Without a word, he lowered his fist, although his knuckle joints creaked alarmingly from how hard he clenched it. Breakdown wanted to flee. Nothing good ever came of that particular look of dark fury, especially when it was directed at him. Bombshell had given him his orders, however, and anyway, running from the King of the Road didn’t work, so Breakdown just stood there clutching the cube and shivering, unable to look away from the fist curled at Motormaster’s side.

He flinched wildly as Motormaster turned on his heel. The Stunticon leader strode away and threw himself down on the common room couch. Hate-filled optics glowered at the television. It was some stupid gameshow. Motormaster hated gameshows. Breakdown had no idea why he’d developed a sudden interest in Jeopardy.

“Drink the slagging energon,” Motormaster said in the dangerously quiet voice every Stunticon knew to fear. Drag Strip stopped scooting toward the other end of the couch and sat still, paralyzed by the instinctive terror all of them shared. Dead End and Wildrider snapped into a half-aft version of attention. Breakdown drew into himself. Motormaster didn’t look away from Trebek, which was almost scarier than glaring directly at them. “Nobody touches that cube. Understand me?”

The other three Stunticons nodded a tad frantically. Yessir, Motormaster. Whatever the bossmech wanted!

Breakdown gulped, shaking harder. What had just happened?

Whatever it was, Motormaster wasn’t going to let it go any time soon. He seemed intent on setting the TV ablaze with his optics. Drag Strip didn’t dare move. Dead End turned to look at Breakdown as if seeing him for the first time, some sort of realization dawning in his visor.

Hungry as he was, Breakdown didn’t want the cube. He hadn’t wanted it when Bombshell made him take it, and he wanted it even less, now. But he’d be a total idiot to disobey both Bombshell and Motormaster. Fumbling under the stares from his teammates, he lifted it to his lips. He had to force himself to swallow. 

It was rich and thick, liquid energy making his mouth tingle from its contained power. His tanks relaxed in an involuntary warm flush as his fuel gauge ticked upward. Despite _knowing_ Motormaster wanted to pop his tires and string his wiring across the room like a clothesline, the locked tension in his axles melted to an anxious back-and-forth rocking. He felt dizzy, torn between nervous terror and the sense of well-being flooding him from his filling tanks. Motormaster’s fingers dug deep gouges into the couch back every time Breakdown took a sip, but what could Breakdown do but keep drinking?

Wildrider sidled over midway through the cube. Breakdown stared at him. “How do I get some?” his teammate wheedled. His grin held excitement for a challenge, but Wildrider was crazy. He had the excuse of being too insane to heed Motormaster’s black aura.

Breakdown wasn’t permitted to share this cube, but… “I guess you could ask Bombshell?” he ventured. He didn’t know what Bombshell would make of that. The Insecticons weren’t a free ride for Stunticons. Breakdown was the exception to the rule, and the rule was _’Eat everything.’_ Even if Bombshell found Wildrider useful enough to keep around -- keep _alive_ \-- that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Breakdown struggled to explain it. “You don’t want to, though. He’s…and I…it’s not bad, not really, but it’s…” He shrugged, unable to put the degradation into words.

He knew he didn’t have the power to change anything. He was a toy, a pet. He didn’t think for himself, and sometimes that was a relief, but that also meant Bombshell owned him inside and out. Sure, he gave Breakdown the occasional treat for behaving, and Breakdown knew he’d be welcome to hide behind his master’s feet if Motormaster hauled off and punched the scrap out of him later, but that wasn’t safety. Safer than staying here while the Stunticon leader was in a rage, maybe, but it was safer for the same reason Bombshell had sent him into a den of starving mechs with a full cube of energon: it served the Insecticons’ purposes.

The Insecticons played with him as they willed. Breakdown did what they wanted. He could feel his master’s hand resting on him even here in the middle of Stunticon territory. 

That wasn’t safety. It was servitude.

It was a sick comfort, right now.

“It’s dangerous,” he said at last, knowing it was a lame explanation but not having a better way of putting it. He knew it was the wrong way to phrase it, too, knowing his teammates magnetic attraction to trouble, but it wasn’t really _bad_. It wasn’t good, it wasn’t fun, but it -- it wasn’t _bad_. Breakdown knew what his standard of measurement was for _bad_.

Wildrider looked at the cube in Breakdown’s hands and licked his lips. Across the room, Dead End was paying too much attention to their conversation. Having this kind of interest turned on him made Breakdown twitchy. He took another sip from the cube just to give his hands something to do.

Wildrider licked his lips again. The energon smelled strong and good, tormenting everyone in the room. His voice lowered to a whisper. “Worse than this?” He nodded the tiniest bit at the couch.

Breakdown glanced at Motormaster. His commander’s head turned, slow and terrible, proving Dead End hadn’t been the only one listening in. Breakdown quickly looked down into the cube. There was no safe answer to give to that question.

But his silence was an answer in and of itself.

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

_[ **A/N:** I really enjoyed writing this one. Combining pet play and Decepticon infighting is one of my favorite things. Until the curtain rises next time, m’dears.]_


End file.
